16
DORI
When I was six, Deb and I lost our last grandparent – my father’s opinionated, quick-witted mother, who made the world’s best sugar cookies, loved to sing and fondly recalled her years as a piano teacher. At her funeral, my sister held my hand, and at the end of the day, she put me to bed.
‘I love you, baby sister of mine,’ Deb said, tucking the covers to my chin.
‘How much?’ I asked, Esther settling in next to me, as she did every night.
Leaning over me, her serious fourteen-year-old eyes shining, Deb whispered, ‘As many grains of sand as there are on all the beaches in all the world.’
‘For how long?’ I pressed, and she rolled her eyes.
‘Forever and forever and forever.’ When I smiled, she added, ‘Duh.’
We’d repeated this ritual on occasion over the years, though I’d never doubted my sister’s love. Hearing her say it was a comfort that I sometimes craved.
I’ve had to accept that Deb is forever changed. I’ll never hear her quirky laugh or her sound advice again. I’ll never feel her arms around me. She’ll never tell me she will love me forever. She’s gone but not gone, and my heart is in limbo, unable to say goodbye.
Because of Reid, I got to say goodbye to Esther. Last night, she slept next to me one last time, nestled against my chest, her intermittent whines, so soft as to be apologetic, breaking my heart. We drove to the vet’s office this morning, and I sat in the back seat, stroking her head where it rested on my leg. Telling her in whispers how much I loved her, and what a good friend she’d been. Her big, dark eyes looked up at me, and I knew she was telling me goodbye too.
On the way home, I held her worn red collar tight in my hands, tears streaming down my face. I read the inscriptions on her tags – her licence info, our matching birthdate, her please-return-to number and address, and her name: Esther Cantrell.
It may seem odd to think of a dog as having a last name, because they don’t need it for school or a job, but it was right. Esther and I shared a surname because she was family, tip to tail.
Kayla: Dori, have you seen the photos in the link I just sent you? Maybe nothing is going on, but I never liked that Brooke Cameron. She’s probably as bitchy and stupid as her life’s a beach character.
Me: I’m sure it’s nothing. I’m actually home. We put Esther to sleep this morning. I’m going back to Cal tomorrow.
Kayla: Oh no! I loved Esther. I’m so sorry. Can me and Aimee come over to cheer you up?
Me: I don’t think that’s possible, but thank you. I’m going to visit Deb tonight. I’ll see you guys next time, I promise.
Kayla: Okay. {{hug}} We’ll keep an eye on that Brooke bitch for you.
The link Kayla sent goes to a gossip website. At the top are two photos – clearly cell-phone taken – of Reid. And Brooke Cameron. Together. In one, they’re sitting together at the gate, talking and waiting for a flight. In the other, they’re sitting together on that flight.
I spoke to him earlier today, and he’d not mentioned her. Perhaps he’s waiting for me to bring it up. Or hoping I won’t. He didn’t tell me they were going to New York together, but they clearly did. There are separate photos of each of them there too – attending the opening nights of their new films last night, both alone. No dates, no plus-ones. The media, of course, speculates wildly over what that means, and the post includes a photo of the two of them from years ago, holding hands, happy. They look the age I was when I fell in love with Colin.
I don’t want to ask him about her. This day has drained me emotionally, and I’m incapable of thinking rationally.
There’s also my gratitude for the fact that thanks to Reid, I’m at my kitchen table, making a gravestone out of a clay tile and ceramic buttons to place on Esther’s spot in the back-yard garden. Two hours ago, Dad and I lowered her carefully into the deep hole he’d dug at dawn, before we left. We positioned Esther’s body as Mom stood by, holding a rawhide bone and her favourite toy – a squeaky banana – to be buried with her.
Esther loved chasing and rough-housing. She was one of those dogs who discouraged any fragile things placed on low tables for fear of her long, constantly wagging tail accidentally sweeping them to the ground. But wrapped in a beach towel of mine which she’d absconded with so many times – dragging it to her dog bed like a security blanket – that I finally gave it to her, she’d seemed so small.
‘Would you like tea?’ Mom asks now, her voice as gruff as mine. Our grief over Esther has revived every anguished memory of Deb’s accident. The three of us are wrestling with the tacit loss of my sister all over again, though no one says so.
‘Yes, please. Chai?’
Mom nods and moves to the sink with the tea kettle. She stares out of the back window, gazing at that new mound of earth within the flower bed, where my identifying tile will go. In a month or so, the dirt will have compressed back into place and the weather will be warmer, and Dad will plant new flowers there.
Deb used to tell me hilarious stories of Esther as a puppy – how she regularly dug up part of Dad’s flower garden to bury her treats and toys. She’d then deposit newly uprooted flowers on the back step, like a confession, or a gift – infuriating our usually unflappable father.
‘How’s … Reid?’ Mom asks, and her question takes me by surprise.
‘He’s good, I think. He came up for a visit last week.’ Keeping my eyes on the tile I’m working on doesn’t prevent my ears from growing hot, because I’m hoping she doesn’t ask where he stayed the night.
She’s quiet for a few minutes, making the tea. When she sets a mug in front of me, she says, ‘It was a nice thing he did, flying you home last night. Are you … planning on seeing him, while you’re here?’
I note the slight judgement in her tone and answer defensively. ‘He’s in New York, actually. He won’t be home in LA until tomorrow, after I’ve gone back to Berkeley.’
‘Oh,’ she says, considering. She offers nothing more, padding from the room to take Dad his tea. He’s in his study, working on tomorrow’s sermon. I can’t imagine trying to stand up in front of a congregation tomorrow and be encouraging or instructive – but then, he had to continue doing his job after Deb’s accident. In the face of it, even.
No matter what grief or loss takes place, most of life flows on all around us, as though nothing’s changed. At some point in our sorrow, we each make a choice to sink or swim. There’s no other alternative.
REID
The paternity test results are in. No surprise – I’m River’s father. I anticipated this answer, of course. What I didn’t expect was the irrational dread that tore through me, in the seconds before Dad gave me the 99% confirmed answer: I was afraid he was going to say he wasn’t mine.
‘He’s definitely yours.’ Dad’s dismal tone makes it clear that this wasn’t the outcome he was wishing for. I can’t fault him. This can’t be how he envisioned becoming a grandfather (assuming he’d ever envisioned that), though legally he’s sort of not one yet.
I expected this answer to amplify my frustration with the whole thing, foreseen or not. After all, the possibility that I’ll have to tell Dori just became a probability. Legal concerns – something I thought I’d moved past two months ago when I got my licence back – are about to complicate the hell out of my life. And most bizarre of all – I have a sudden, unwelcome sense of obligation towards Brooke.
I should be angry, but instead, I feel conflicted and relieved. What. The. Hell?
So then I think – maybe it’s biological. I’m a man and I’ve reproduced. Maybe there’s a sort of chest-beating satisfaction at the root of this. How f*cking lame and archaic – I mean shit, seriously? On the heels of that thought is the knowledge that this same kid has turned Brooke Cameron into an ardent defender of motherhood – her own, of course – not the institution itself. But still. There must be some primitive impulse to blame.
Six hours later, I’m meeting with Dad to decide what to do next. Dropping into a seat across from him, I wait while he finishes a client email. His home office looks the same as it always has – a near-duplicate of his high-rise headquarters, but I haven’t given it a detailed survey in years.
He doesn’t meet with clients here, of course, so there’s no need for posturing – tasteful artwork, perfectly aligned legal books, smiling family photos. Accordingly, the only artwork hanging on the walls consists of a couple of repulsively gruesome war paintings he inherited from his parents, who died when I was too young to retain a memory of them. The built-ins behind him house a disordered arrangement of California and Federal criminal-law volumes, penal codes (the titles of which made me snigger as a ten-year-old), and thick tomes housing Supreme Court precedents. I thank fate once again for making me an actor, though at times I wonder how far apart my dad’s career and my own actually are.
On his cupboard is an array of framed photos – all turned to face his desk, as though he glances at them occasionally, or can if he decides to. The largest is my favourite of my parents on their wedding day. Next to it is Mom holding me the day I was born – she, fresh-faced and beautiful, and me, nothing but a cranky face the size of a grapefruit, encased in a tube of blue blankets. Another shows Mom and me on my first day of kindergarten, my backpack more like a giant shell on my back. She smiles down at me, her hand on my head, and I’m all teeth and big blue eyes, laughing straight into the camera.
While Dad taps at the keyboard, I rise and pick up the pewter frame. Looking closer, I mentally compare this photo to the one of River. Only a year older than he is now, I look much bigger. My clothes are new and expensive – a mirror image of what hip adolescents wore at the time, though at five, I couldn’t possibly have known or cared. My expression is far from solemn. Even so, I see him in my features. I see him, if he was cared for. And happier.
I didn’t want this, any of it, but it’s like I’m stuck on a track, and the train is coming, and there’s nothing I can do but accept the inevitable and try to mitigate the collateral damage.
‘All done,’ Dad says, and I set the photo back in its place and take a seat in front of his desk, leaning forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped. Mirroring the sensation I got walking between Brooke’s box towers a few days ago, the walls are closing in.
‘I don’t expect you to answer what I’m about to say right away, though we haven’t got the time to linger over decisions. You’ve said that Ms Cameron intends to adopt the child –’
‘River.’
‘River. Right.’ His pen scratches across the pad. ‘Do you know whether she intends to continue to live in LA? Or move back to Texas?’
‘She’s moving into a two-bedroom condo near the one she’s in now. I assume that means she plans to be here most of the time, if not all of the time.’
Pursing his lips, he taps his pen, staring at his handwritten notes. ‘My initial reaction was hope that I could extricate you from this situation, because this isn’t something for which you can serve a few weeks of community service or pay a fine, and then it’s all over.’
He leans up and our eyes lock – his dark, like Dori’s, and I wonder how long it’s been since he’s looked at me so directly. ‘I’m not going to lecture you about protection – I think you know these things, and you probably knew them then, but not well enough to be consistent. If anyone should be lectured, it’s me. Christ, you weren’t even fifteen when this happened.’ He runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, his jaw locked. ‘The fact remains, you fathered a child, even if you were a child yourself at the time – and instead of living with settled adoptive parents, he’s presently in foster care, and it’s very likely he’ll be living with your unstable ex-girlfriend soon, minutes away.’
‘What are you saying, Dad?’
‘I’m saying … that if you relinquish your rights to him now, you may live to regret it.’
Okay. This day is full of unanticipated responses. I nod once and stare at my hands as he continues.
‘When you were born, I was petrified that I’d be a horrible father. Your grandfather was a hard man and he taught me nothing of paternal tenderness. I guess in many ways my fear came true – I made it true. But I never turned my back on you. I don’t have to look at you right now and try to explain why I signed away my rights to you. Giving up a baby for adoption is a good thing, almost always, in cases like yours and Brooke’s. What’s happened to the – to River – is virtually unheard of. It couldn’t have been foreseen, and there’s little use asking why or how it happened. All that matters is what we choose to do about it now. What you choose to do about it now – because I won’t make this choice for you. But I’ll stand by you, no matter what you decide.’
I close my eyes and will the walls to shift further apart so I can breathe. ‘Assuming I don’t sign the relinquishment, what happens?’
‘Three choices. One, you simply refuse to sign it, making the adoption more difficult for Brooke, but likely resulting in an eventual relinquishment by default. Two, join Brooke’s bid to adopt and request joint custody. Three, file for full custody. Considering the fact that you were fifteen when he was born, she knew you were the father, and no one saw fit to inform your legal guardians, a case could be made that you never legally relinquished your rights. She signed her rights away, with full parental consent. You signed nothing, and neither did we.’
Brooke will be furious no matter which of those I choose. I’m going to drive Dori away as soon as I spill this to her. And I could destroy my mother’s fragile sobriety.
‘What about Mom? What will this do to her?’
His mouth forms a grim line, and he’s silent for a moment. ‘I’ve grappled with that all day. I don’t know, Reid. She’s been going to meetings every day. She’s doing well. Better than I’ve seen her in a decade. But you and I know that upheavals like this …’
I drop my head in my hands, pulled in a million directions. ‘I know.’
Ever the attorney, he says, ‘I’ll have to consider how to best disclose it to her. That will be mine to handle, however. You have enough on your plate.’